Laughter of Dead Kings

There was no restraining him, and by that time I had half-convinced myself. Even with four of us it was a tricky job manipulating the glass cover and the coffin lid; I couldn’t imagine how Feisal and Ali had managed it. Sheer desperation, I supposed. Feisal kept repeating, “Be careful! Don’t damage it!”

“Get a grip,” John said impatiently. “Pun, deliberate. You can blame any damage on the thieves. Ready? Lift, shift and lower. One, two…”

We didn’t have to shift the lid far. It was dark down in there; Feisal slid his hand through the gap, which I wouldn’t have done, and felt around. His face fell.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It was a preposterous idea,” John said.

“But it had to be done,” Schmidt said.

“Quite so. Leave no stone unturned, no coffin lid unlifted. I see no point in moving it back, do you?”

He addressed Feisal, who shook his head. “If anyone gets this far, we’re lost anyhow. Just replace the glass so it doesn’t fall and break.”

Just, he said. We got the job done, though I pulled something in my shoulder, and Schmidt mashed a finger. Our first casualty, I thought, as I wound a hankie round his hand. Schmidt rather enjoys being wounded in the course of battle; he nobly refused my suggestion that we return to the hotel for more extensive first aid.

“We must go at once to the house of the poor guard and question his wife,” he insisted.

“There’s no need for you to come with me,” Feisal said. “You should get that finger cleaned up, Schmidt, it’s only too easy to get an infection here.”

“It has bled freely,” said Schmidt, admiring the stained hanky. “You will want witnesses, Feisal, and persons skilled in interrogation. Vicky will take notes.”

Feisal locked the gate and switched off the lights. We made our way back to the entrance; Feisal hailed a taxi, and I asked, “Don’t you rate a car and driver?”

“I rate an ancient Jeep. It’s in the shop. It usually is.”

From his sour tone I figured he was thinking of Ashraf’s upholstered limo and squadron of assistants.

The road led back the way we had come, toward the boat landing. Having failed to force notebook and pen into my hands, Schmidt was trying to make notes. Considering the state of the road and the taxi’s springs, I doubted he would be able to decipher his scrawled writing, but it kept him busy and happy. The scenery was monotonous in the extreme, stretches of barren earth reaching back to equally barren cliffs—all shades of tan and brown, with an occasional vivid patch of green. I didn’t criticize, since I knew I’d be jumped on by the experts, who would start pointing out fascinating heaps of rubble and telling me what they were.

The taxi stopped in front of a cluster of houses that clung to a rocky hillside. They looked like square boxes, randomly placed, but they were the most interesting things my uneducated eyes had seen since we left the Valley. Some of the flat facades were painted shining white or golden yellow or faded blue, some had scenes of people and camels, ships and airplanes, in nonchalant juxtaposition.

“I thought the authorities were moving these people to a new village,” said Mr. Know-It-All Schmidt, without looking up.

“They’re about to.” Feisal got out of the front seat and wrestled with the back door, which had no inside handle. It gave way finally and I got out. “We’ll have to walk from here,” Feisal went on. “Ali’s house is farther up, near the tomb of Ramose.”

“It is a pity,” Schmidt said. “They have lived here for centuries.”

“And earned a good living robbing the tombs under the houses,” Feisal said. “I know, Schmidt, the place is picturesque as hell, and the Gurnawis have fought the move tooth and nail, but it has to be done.”

It was picturesque, if you don’t mind a lot of dust and stray dogs and barefoot children pestering innocent tourists. Some tried to peddle hideously fake scarabs and small figurines, others just demanded baksheesh. Feisal yelled at them in Arabic. Some of them backed off; the bolder ones circled us and came in from the rear. Schmidt stopped and dug in his bulging pocket. First he produced the magnifying glass, which inspired gasps of longing from the kids. One of them, a skinny boy wearing a ragged T-shirt, reached out. Feisal swatted his hand away.

“Don’t give them anything, Schmidt; they have to learn not to beg. That’s one of the reasons why we’re moving them; tourists complain about being hassled.”

“They are poor,” Schmidt said. “If you had so little, would you not beg?”

He put the magnifying glass back and came up with a handful of ballpoint pens. They were obviously popular substitutes for cash. The distribution process got a little agitated, with the bigger youngsters snatching from the little ones, and Schmidt in the thick of the melee, scolding and snatching back. A wave of affection swept over me as I watched him. He was a soft-hearted pushover. If there were more like him, the world wouldn’t be such a sad place.

Finally Feisal dispersed the young villains with a roar. A few ran on ahead. By the time we reached Ali’s house, our arrival had been announced.

The summer temperatures in Egypt hover around one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The houses have thick walls and small windows to keep out the heat, and the room seemed pitch-black after the blinding brightness outside. As my eyes adjusted I saw that the room was packed with people, mostly women and children, some seated on a low cushioned divan along the side wall, some squatting on the floor. The shadowy forms and bright unblinking eyes were a little uncanny. How long had they been sitting there, unmoving as statues? They couldn’t have known we were coming. I got a grip on myself. Obviously our arrival had been announced even earlier than I’d thought, probably the moment Feisal got out of the taxi.

One of the women stood up and greeted Feisal. I recognized the formal “Salaam aleikhum,” to which Feisal responded. He knew better than to cut the formalities short; we were offered seats on the divan and glasses of steaming tea and a plate of sweet biscuits. I got a place next to the woman who had welcomed us. Surely she couldn’t be Ali’s wife. Women wore out fast, but her face was as withered as those of the better-looking mummies in the museum. She was enveloped in black, head, arms, and body—the traditional garb of the previous generation, which most modern women have modified or abandoned—and when she smiled at me and spoke, I saw she was missing most of her teeth. But the eyes, half-hidden by sagging lids, were as bright and piercing as those of a bird of prey.

“This is Umm Ali,” Feisal said. “Ali’s mother. Drink your tea, Vicky, she asked if you would prefer something else.”

I would have risked blistering my fingers rather than offend, but in the nick of time I remembered the technique—thumb under the thick glass of the bottom, fingers steadying the rim. I nodded vigorously at the old lady, bared my teeth in a grin, and sipped. The tea was strong and very sweet. Cavities, here I come, it proclaimed.

I was the last to do my duty. As soon as I had done so, Feisal launched into a series of questions. Umm Ali responded. I couldn’t understand a word, so I tried to figure out which of the other women was Ali’s wife, nodding and smiling as my gaze met one pair of brown or black eyes after another. One woman, veiled as well as swathed, had eyes of a paler shade; she ducked her head shyly when I looked at her. To judge by her attire, she was too old to be the wife, but what did I know? Mama was obviously the one in charge. The others were probably part of an extended family, which could include sisters and aunts and even more-distant relatives. They didn’t say a word. A couple of the men present joined in after a while, adding brief comments, but deferring, as the women had done, to the matriarch. From the back part of the house I heard a donkey bray and a duck quack. A chicken wandered into the room, its head cocked in that deceptive look of intelligence chickens have, and tried to get up on my lap. I pushed it off and smiled apologetically at the woman on my left, hoping I had not been rude. I have nothing against chickens except for the fact that they are not housebroken.

Rejected, the chicken approached John. I hoped it would hop up on him, but something in his frozen glare must have penetrated even its feeble chicken brain. It backed off. I had finished most of my tea and was feeling strangely comfortable; the animal sounds and smells took me back to the days of my childhood on my family’s farm in Minnesota, where I learned to love the scent of a well-manured garden.

Feisal broke the mood, addressing me directly. “I don’t suppose you understood any of that. Sorry about the chicken,” he added.

“No problem. Would I be rude to ask for more tea?”